


Burn

by Sparrowhawkshadow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Lives, Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Awkward Cullen Rutherford, Between the Scenes, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Corruption, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Origins Spoilers, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Hate Speech, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, Language, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Manipulation, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Minor Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, kind of, romance not main focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrowhawkshadow/pseuds/Sparrowhawkshadow
Summary: ~ Cullen goes after his recruit, and meets an old not-quite friend ~
Relationships: Ambra/Ser Thrask (Dragon Age), Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Anders/Karl Thekla, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Kudos: 1





	1. Knight

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my Pen & Paper People who were the reason I started writing this in the first place.
> 
> ~
> 
> It's occurred to me that this might be frustrating for people mainly looking for Romance, which this mostly ... is not. There's ... something there, but it's not a classical love-story version of a tale. I'm happy to have you reading, but I don't want to lead anyone on, so to speak.  
> This is mostly ... an in-between scenes story of the Merry Misfits of Kirkwall's lives and larcenies, then and after, romantic misadventures included but not necessarily the main focus.
> 
> There will also be - hopefully, as I'm still working on it - another story running back-to-back to this one that will have the main plot and after, only ... different than Canon. And with a lot more Anders.
> 
> ~
> 
> Updates once or twice a month.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Cullen goes after his recruit and meets an old not-quite friend ~

## Chapter 1: Knight

~~~  
Wilmod isn't the first to die, isn't even the first to die on Cullen's sword if you count the Templars in Kinloch – and he does. By now he must have looked into more eyes of Templars than Mages as he killed them – and if that isn't a sick thought.  
He remembers Kinloch, mostly at night – not during the day, he keeps busy then. He also remembers Denerim, only at night, when he can't steer his mind somewhere else. The screaming that he realised only after it stopped had come from him, and worse, the screaming he knew was coming from him but no one else could hear. And the lyrium, like a cold burn against his tongue, against his mind, but the blessing was a curse in disguise like the soft touch of the demon's hands. The illusion of relief, nothing more. Better not to have any.  
Wilmod was not the first to die on his sword, not even the first comrade he had to strike down, but he's the first Cullen chose to kill rather than striking out in self-defense – because as much it is exactly that when the abomination attacks, Cullen knows what brought him there.  
He purposefully provoked Wilmod into slipping, and now he does. Better he does it here, where he can't hurt any innocents – and he can't, relatively, even if Cullen didn't count on Tethras and his troupe to come tromping in, though it's lucky they did because now it doesn't seem to be only Wilmod.  
He knows he told the Knight Commander to kill all the mages. He knows he thought it was the only way.  
Maybe it was, but they didn‘t make it look like that – he‘s still not sure whether he was insane, or the Warden was to trust the mages. Even now. Especially now.  
Cullen no longer knows whether he could go through with something like that. But it looks like he‘ll have to. Templars controlled by bloodmages, harbouring demons – Maker. Again, it‘s like living a nightmare.

Tethras takes him aside after the … incident. What a horrible word for murdering your own student. From the look in the surfacer's eye, he knows, too. Those always smiling eyes see far too much for someone who projects 'upbeat and just up for a good time' like there's no tomorrow.  
"You holding up there, Curly?"  
… Void. Cullen thought the dwarf was projecting upbeat. But he's as bad as Rosalie – he's made a Maker-be-damned art out of it.  
"It's Cullen", he grumbles, though he knows he's only digging himself in deeper. Still, the dwarf expects at least a bit of a fight – if he doesn't resist at least a little, he'll only think of one that's worse until Cullen can't stand it and does react. He'd rather get a halfways manageable nickname. Since he's getting a nickname, and all, there's no doubt about that from the steely glint in Tethras' eye.  
He's pretty sure Tethras has had the use of an older brother to practice being annoying on. He's got "younger son" written all over him, from the golden earrings and fat grin to the glib tongue and far too revealing shirt. Void, Cullen knows he's quick to look away on a woman, but it's the first time he knows he's actually blushed at seeing a man's … cleavage, for lack of a better term – and he did live in the barracks for years. And with Alistair, high king of the joint embarassment, no less.  
"Eyes are up here, Curly", Tethras says, clearly amused. "Or down here. You know, relatively speaking."  
"Yes, I know I'm short", Cullen growls, then adds, for good measure, "I make up for it in other ways." Tethras laughs, startled. It's worth the burning on his ears. Like ripping off a bandage.  
"You do surprise me", the dwarf says, as if they'd known each other for more than half an hour, and most of that was spent hacking away at people's entrails. Granted, hacking at people's entrails does give you a good way to look into a person's intentions. So to speak. Maker, that just went somewhere horrible, even if it‘s pretty much accurate. Demons have a way of … turning a person inside out. Unfortunately, quite often that's literal too. Cullen swallows the bile, and focuses on the obnoxious dwarf he can at least be relatively sure won't mind control him … by anything other but bad prose. He knows his kind – they keep talking and fencing and talking until you agree to the deal – horns and magic or no. He‘s certainly heard about Tethras.  
He‘s also found enough of Tethras‘ latest serial in the barracks that he doesn‘t know how to talk to the man without flushing up to his ears as red as his tunic. And Cullen presently has enough on his mind – pun intended - to keep fending off more than one set of bad haunting.  
He does need allies rather desperately too, even if it consists of Seven-Escape-Attempts Loverboy and his Menagerie of Menaces. Even if Anders is supposedly respectable now, and a Hero of Amaranthine no less – and if Cullen can believe that, the mage wasn't always the sort of fool to go haring head-first into fire to save people, far too fond of saving his own sparkly behind. But at least he got a literal badge that says 'Don't Arrest Me' out of it, at least there's that.  
Cullen has a bit more important things to do than drag drunk and butt-ass naked Anders, covered in sparkles and too many other things from another brothel – and pay his tab, no less. He's never been sure whether that wasn't just a tiny bit what they call revenge fuck, in reverse. If it was, Cullen has to give him credit – it worked. Literally no one wanted to be the one to catch him, again.

Tethras might not be exactly a knight of virtue either but he's good to have at one's back. For all his dramatics, Cullen does know the dwarf is fearless. He saw him put point-blank shots into an abomination's eyes – eyes, plural, more than two – before darting to the side under clouds of obnoxious powder at the very last possible moment. Cullen wonders whether that‘s going to be prophetic too. But - anyone who can face down an abomination without flinching – to save someone he doesn't even know, on top of that – is worth some respect, in Cullen's book.  
"To be more serious and spoiling the mood, and all that rack - " Tethras says, and Cullen can already tell he wont like where they're going with this, "- are you alright?"  
Oh, Maker, no. Tethras is one of those who actually give a shit – or else he's really good at manipulating people into following him like a brood of lost ducklings, and Cullen presently can't decide what bothers him more, and he knows that precise attitude is something that should bother him. On top of it -  
… he's not sure how to answer that without sounding offensive, even if it's all true.

~~~


	2. Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Cullen and The Rose ~

~~~

Of course Cullen does end up paying Anders‘ tab.

Although -

" _Five_ people?" he chokes out, staring at Viveka‘s neat script, and the … what is she, even? Cullen knows that much, she‘s not a … one of the young … or ladies, anyway. Calling her a housekeeper sounds just wrong.

"Actually six", Viveka says, not moving a muscle from her permanently slightly bored face – it always reminds Cullen of Ser Moira on Friday evening, when she‘s had all the early shifts in the Gallows Market all week.

It says _I deal with idiots like you every day, and once an hour, I deal with someone even more slimey. So don‘t even try it, honey_.

He‘d call her a guardswoman if it wasn‘t pretty clear that‘s what the the half- naked tall blondes are for – not all natural, he suspects, although that might be because the only Anders he knows was dark as long as he‘s known him, until he‘s suddenly not. At least they‘re stationed strategically at the doors with horrible looking outdated stone spears like some kind of guard. But - maybe they‘re someone‘s weird fantasy? They do look horribly uniform. No, not going there.

It doesn‘t help that Viveka talks like Moira, too. Saluting her on reflex in a – an establishment like this will surely come across very much wrong, and not at all like Cullen intends it.

Cullen hasn‘t even bothered raising the topic of the rates. He knows when he‘s defeated before the battle even starts.

"Six", he echos, blankly. He‘s trying very firmly to think of nothing, and it‘s very hard. Not that. Maker. This is worse than meditation training. Maker, please give him a candle to stare at all night – at least he‘d know where to look. Here -

Well, Viveka‘s shoes seemed a good alternative to the parchment. They‘re very sensible shoes, good to stare at. He‘d thought, until she‘d raised an eyebrow at him and told him in an entirely matter-of-fact-tone that they had professionals for every kind of taste. Maker.

So now he‘s staring holes into the ledger. If he concentrates any harder a smite will burst from the sky and burn the paper. Granted, that would be hilarious, if the Maker‘s Wrath suddenly came down on the Rose‘s books.

Still.

"Hm. Eh. Is there – a reason it‘s five in the book, then?"

"Of _course_ there is", Viveka says, and she‘s actually sounding insulted now. "I do not whitewash my accounting Ser."  
"Oh, no, I never meant to say you did." Cullen says quickly. "I just – don‘t see the logic? Uhm. Shouldn‘t it be on here if I‘m meant to pay for it, or – was that a discount for -" _The size of the party_?

… Maker he‘s not going to say that out loud.

Half the templars in the room are staring at him anyhow – yes, he knows his men by sight, even in civies, thank you, - no matter how much Cullen tries desperately to ignore them, and the other half of them is purposefully glancing anywhere else really, trying to disappear or not to laugh too openly in his face, he‘s not sure. He‘s not looking forward to writing disciplinary duty tonight if this continues, and they all know it. He‘ll still be doing ledgers by the time the last of them has finished latrine duty.

Now he knows why no one volunteered for Lieutenant‘s post and let the upstart Fereldan take it.

He‘s been radish red by the time he made it past the doorstep at least, so that can‘t get any worse. Unfortunately, now he‘s starting to sweat profusely, too. If anyone asks, he‘ll blame it on the – Maker, not on the heat. His armour. That‘s a safer answer.

"So, uhm. The reason it‘s only five?" Maker his voice, he sounds like he‘s gargled glass.

"Miss Isabela has a tab, of course."

It takes him a moment to find a voice after that. When he does, it‘s remarkably steady – it‘s pretty much the same feeling like suddenly getting hit by the ambient discharge of a lightning spell. He doesn‘t feel all there, though he‘s rooted to the spot. Maybe his colour has gone and done interesting things too, maybe he‘s turned white – because Viveka‘s staring again, and Cullen‘s pretty sure there‘s no possible way he could have turned any darker. Maybe he should take pride in knowing he can make Viveka stare, who must surely has seen some … stuff.

Or maybe he really shouldn‘t.

So he just hands her his purse.

"Thank you, that‘ll be all. I‘ll just … pay that, shall I." He knows he looks like a fool, letting her dig through the pennies and quarters like he‘s a drunk and she a barmaid serving cheap ale, but he knows he‘d look even more stupid if he dropped the whole thing and sent his cheap copper rolling all across the floor. Not to mention he doesn‘t know what‘s on that floor apart from spilt beer, and he doesn‘t want to contemplate it.

~

It takes him to regain his bearings until he‘s rounded the corner outside, the smell of sex and despair and lyrium and the apathy enough to drive him headfirst into narrowing in on his acute embarassment, at least that‘s all his – even if, technically, it belonged to a younger self, a more … he hesitates to say innocent. He was foolish enough to trust the word of a mage, at least. Naive maybe. It‘s still easy to fall back, because he really wants to believe all the ladies of the Rose wouldn‘t rob him blind if he so much as turned his back on his purse in there.

Granted, he is still walking a little fast, and it had nothing to do with seeing Thrask round the other side of the square, a small bundle in his gloved hand. Cullen knows without looking that it‘ll be violets again. Everyone knows he comes here once a week to leave flowers for his sweetheart – not like that. It‘s actually … rather sad, Cullen thinks. Bad enough to fall for a prostitute, but -

 _Not as bad as falling for a mage_ , a mean voice in the back of his head says. He quenches that thought with a vengeance.

How many years has that been going on? The only thing he‘s caught from gossip is that it was decades now since she died. Found one morning, half dressed in her room. Cullen didn‘t want to hear the rest, really, not from the men bad mouthing another Templar, and – asking Thrask himself was out of the question. Even after - even if he‘s not quite sure whether the man is entirely fit for duty – he himself is surely not one to point fingers in that regard. And Thrask has continued to serve well, so far.

Unlike many others.

Well. Maybe not all of them have been due to neglect of duty.

And here‘s the thing he wanted to avoid thinking about, and why he‘d even come to the Rose himself in the first place.

At least his mortal embarassment had been a different sort of distraction. And Thrask‘s private business is hardly any of his. Even if that‘s starting to feel familiar. Can he really choose to ignore it out of some misguided sense of … decency? He doesn‘t even know what to call it, only that it‘s rather disgusting to go prying into a person‘s personal life – even if that person happens to be a Templar who might still be relieved of command because he let that elven boy get away, the one they said was doing suspicious magics in the alienage.

But did Thrask, though, or was it just a matter of unfortunate circumstances? He seems like a good man, even if his heart is a little to soft.

Then again – maybe that‘s the solution.

Cullen needs to watch Thrask, and he needs to get a handle on this business. And maybe it will show whether Thrask still thinks of himself mainly as a Templar who‘s protecting mages, or as someone on the mages‘ side against the Templars.

Maker knows Cullen is aware how little it takes to slip from that knife‘s edge, and down the wrong side unnoticed. He‘d rather it wasn‘t Thrask. He likes the man. He thinks, they haven‘t talked much so far, but maybe they should.

"Ser Thrask!" he calls out, and is half-surprised the man even stops. He‘s of Cullen‘s rank after all – and far his senior. He‘s not even on duty, not really – for all that he‘s still in armour. Kirkwall is a dangerous turf.

"I meant to ask", Cullen says. "I have an … investigation." Thrask‘s daughter recently died, he‘d said, though he didn‘t want to mention the details. Murdered because one night, she trusted the wrong man, that much Cullen knows. Thrask hasn‘t laughed since.

The man now tilts his head, his silverite-armoured hands gentle around the violets and his sad blue eyes just a shade or two lighter and steady on Cullen. That‘s a man who has nothing left to loose. Even so, he doesn‘t smell of alcohol – nor does he have the look of one who‘s been indulging in the Blue. He doesn‘t have the look of Samson, nor of Meredith.

Cullen doesn‘t need a zealot tonight, not one of Karras‘ lackeys. He needs a job done, and he needs it done quick and clean, but decisive enough that the culprits can‘t flee. And to save whatever innocents still remain alive.

Thrask surely will be motivated, if he still bothers coming in to work. If he isn‘t already corrupted. Better to know now.

"I would like your insight, Knight-Lieutenant."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ I referenced WoTh I & II . Thrask's romance with one of The Rose's prostitutes is canon, though it's barely mentioned in the game. Cullen, with his admiration for a female mage character in DA:O, might have reacted sympathetic, or even particularly unsympathetic after Kinloch. We barely get a glance inside the Gallows in the game until the very end, apart from Anders' narrative.
> 
> I always wondered what the whole story was, both for Thrask and also for the two templars, because their stories seemed to have so much in common, though they come out of their storylines differently. Knowing Cullen's originally planned fate for DA:I ... in Flemeth's words: was it fate or chance? 
> 
> I am planning on letting Samson have his say, too :-) ~
> 
> ~Edited 2021/01/03 for formating.~


	3. Lure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ More from The Rose.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ I'm a bit late, but I really didn't want to put this up during the holidays. This is not a happy chapter, for anyone, really. ~

~~~

"Darling, I‘m _off_ now!", the elf flutes across the upper levels, cheerfully loud across the noise of a bed scraping the wall next door.

'Idunna' has to grin – Jethann just has that effect with his over-the top drama that drops the instance he‘s out the door, but he‘s like one of the actors at the Mill, that fancy theater in Hightown. Jethann, at least, should be on that stage. He lives in his role, no matter what he does.

Sometimes she envies him.

Jethann flutters his fingers at her from where he‘s prancing past the door even as he clamps the other arm around Thrask‘s neck to drag him along – he has to go on tiptoes to do it, and with the templar flushing as red as his robes, they look quite a sight. She really doesn‘t know how Thrask doesn‘t dress less obvious, but maybe he doesn‘t see the point – everyone knows where he‘s going after all. Thrask is a bit of a Rose‘s mascot these days, who comes here to fuck around but not to fuck. Always pays his tab on time too.

Boring. Boring, and harmless, and not at all to her taste because even when she doesn‘t choose for herself – and now she can, she has that many clients Madame Lusine doesn‘t care who she turns down, it only exaggerates her reputation. But even when she has to chose less savoury folks – she doesn‘t think Thrask will do at all. For one thing, she doesn‘t think the man has a single spark of lust for life or otherwise left in his body. The way he‘s mooning with a sad look in his corner is a little sickening and must be unhealthy – but the other half of her‘s jealous. It‘s kind of pathetic, but it‘s also … the sort of knight she would have dreamed up as a girl, before she found out she was a mage and became a woman and found out exactly what knights are like – that they carry sharp swords and ugly words and uglier fists with their gleaming shields.

Strip a knight of all the shining armour and he‘s just a man – but give a man armour and he thinks he‘s invincible. It doesn‘t make him a better man at all – it just makes him a man with a sword, and that‘s not always a good thing.

Maybe sometimes it is. Maybe she hasn‘t touched Thrask at all because of that – even if she‘d think she could make him fall for her, which she‘s … not all that sure of. She‘s the first to recognise that the fascination the templars have for her is a flimsy, superficial thing, all built on glamour even without the additional life she gives it. Thrasks and his pityful small violets and his one half-pint of beer don‘t exactly scream of a love for excess.

And then, she doesn‘t want to risk it. She‘s not Tarohne – she‘d rather have the bird in the hand than the two in the bush, and Thrask… might just be an upright enough man in the other sense of the word he might see through her.

And maybe, if she‘s being honest for once, she still wants to believe that there might be someone who became a knight, and whose worst self is lurking in a brothel while sober and stealing violets out of Viscount Dumar‘s gardens. Also while sober, she assumes, she's never seen him drunk after all. She's not sure what part is most embarassing.

Yes, she does know where Thrask gets his flowers from. They don't grow in the arid wastelands poisoned by the fumes and waste of Kirwall's foundry districts. She's pretty sure violets also don't grow on cursed Sundermount - she's never been there though. But she hears all sorts of things in her ... position. She also knows Dumar planted them because his son liked them as a child, after someone told him his eyes were just that colour. It‘s not a plant nobles in Hightown usually grow, except Seamus Dumar, who always needs a little extra excitement. Just living in comfort must be boring if daddy is spoiling you and you‘ve never known anything else. Snobbish little brat, but there are worse people than that.

Some people deserve being lied to. In fact, most people deserve being lied to, even if it‘s also necessary if she wants to live. She‘ll take her thrills where she can.

She‘s not Tarohne. Freedom of the Templars‘ watchful eyes, justice, fucking revenge – for all the shit they did, made them do in the Circles – it‘s nice to believe. That‘s just it. Believing this will set them free – it‘s a dream, and a far fetched one. It‘s nothing but revenge.

She‘d rather have reality, even if it‘s not Tarohne‘s dream, nor her own. She‘d rather have her life that they wouldn‘t let her have. Let that be her revenge.

She‘s had enough of knights in shining armour – literally.

And she‘ll have her life, even if it means she must lie to their faces, and steal their dreams, and murder those that stand in her way. She‘ll let herself be used – but this time, it‘ll be on her terms, and on hers only.

Maybe Thrask can be the exception. Tarohne told her to kill him if she didn‘t want to bring him in, or couldn‘t – and hadn‘t that been a disbelieving sneer, as if she thought Idunna was going soft. As if. She was unlikely to forget just what monsters Templars could be. So let them be.

Thrask however was a shitty templar, but he was a halfways decent man. Tarohne … she‘d rather deal with a demon. Now there was a shitty excuse of a human being. At least a demon had the excuse of not being supposed to know better.

Let him be.

With his pitiful violets, and his guilty half pint. It was a miserable little life anyways. He had no mind for a dream of his own anyways, maybe because that dream had died on him long ago.  
Let him live.

~~

When the Templars come to interrogate her she‘s ready to lie to the last.

She won‘t let them win, not even if it costs her life. Let them taste what loosing feels like.

She‘ll curse them with her last drop of power. Let that teach them – to bring in a bloodmage still breathing, against Circle protocols, just because they want to save their whelps of little monsters – as if they could ever be anything but monsters. They're just as unnatural births as a real abomination and just set to hurt everyone they can't feed on. They are monsters too, fattened up on their stolen power - just ripe for the taking. They don‘t deserve to be saved. She‘s seen their dreams. How else could she dominate their minds, if they weren‘t inferior even to her own depravity? She‘ll kill them first. Let them learn not to bring a bloodmage in still living, and maybe the others at least will die a quick death.

She'll take her stand here. It's true, what she's heard is being whispered among the apostates - the templars must fall. They're not set in place of power by the Maker. They're just men, and they can be unmade by men - and women, surely. Mages were made by the Maker. They must deserve better than this, they _must_. It's not fair, to live like this, always afraid. And she is _done_.

Even if the kill her for taking a stand against their perversions.

She can not buy her life, but she can buy their freedom. Like Tarohne wanted. Like she wanted.

Didn‘t she?

~

When she sees the bright red hair, she gasps – even as the Knight-Lieutenant that dragged her in like a lost doll of some sort glares at her in triumph over the newcomer‘s wide armoured shoulders. She glares back at him, at that pitiless son of a Fereldan bitch who dares to act all righteous and proper but who has hands harsh as steel and a soul just as cold. She almost expected him to drag her in by her hair.

Even so, she can‘t take her eyes off the new one for long - the red hair and the violet blue eyes, and the sad pinch of his mouth, as he turns and shuts the door – calmly, quietly, repressedly – no slamming it closed with this one.

Damn him, she always knew he was civilised.

She wants to kill him now – that liar, she thought he was different.

Did she?

The other one moves forward, but the new templar motions for him to stay back, and blonde bitchface slumps against the wall in that casual slouch of a recent lyrium buzz, limbs tingling with the stolen power, the kind of slouch that promises an explosion into sudden violence with a narrow-eyed glare and one hand on his sword, eyes cold and calculating.

How dare he. How _dare_ he. He stole a mage‘s power, and now he wants to judge her? She knows what the rush of blood feels like – this is just the same. Power over someone else, power he was never meant to have. She tries to feed that anger, but it feels hollow. Fear is just behind. She dares not dip into his mind again – she tried that on the way here. It‘s an empty room, his mind, with blood on the floor and pain in every limb and his skin burning endlessly under sharp clawed hands she knows in a fire that doesn‘t come from this world and her mind an endless litany.

_Magic must serve man, and never rule over him.Those that bring harm without provocation against the least of his children, shall be dreaded and accursed._

_Maker let this end. Let me die._

She can‘t go back there. If that‘s his only wish – she can‘t.

She – that could very well be her.

The one with hair like flame turns sad eyes on her, an she realises that her time is up.  
It‘s for her to spill her secrets or die. And -

She doesn‘t want to die. Not after what the Knight-Lieutenant‘s mind has shown her. Not like that. Not – broken. She doesn‘t think she could stand what that son of a bitch could come up with. Fear grasps her gut like a cold vice as the red-haired Templar sits down in front of her.

Like he‘s going to be just talking. Like he‘s going to be nice about it.

She wants to throw up. She hopes that when she does she‘ll throw up all over him.

"My name is Knight-Lieutenant Thrask", the templar opposite her says, all polite-like, with two chairs and a table between them, as if civilisation has any hold on this … tooth and claws battle to the death they‘re playing. One of them will die here on the floor, blood and guts and guilty secrets spilling out – and for the first time she has a feeling she might not win, no matter what way this ends.

"Let us start."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Views expressed by the characters are solely the views of the characters, and are not meant to represent the views of the author. I will also try to do my utmost not to bash any characters or paint them two-dimensional, even those I'd dearly like to *ahem* through a wall, or maybe a Faderift or two. Yes, not even Danarius.~
> 
> ~Quotes from the Chant of Light, and also from The Manifesto of The Mage Underground (which Anders reads out loud to a Hawke on the rivalry path with certain dialogue choices, and can also be found in excerpts in a mage's hut during DA:I). ~
> 
> ~ Thank you for reading! :-) ~


	4. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~Cullen and Mage Amell (a very little bit). Mostly, Cullen angsting like Cullen does, but. If you squint a bit Lake Calenhad is shaped like a bunny. ~

~~~

It's already very much late when Cullen takes the ferry to the main docks, but he feels like crawling not only just out of the Gallows but out of his skin, and since that's not reasonably possible, at least not without blood magic - no, Maker no. He's leaving specifically because of -

No.

He won't go there.

_No._

Rather, he'd be going anywhere else in Kirkwall, literally _anywhere_ else in _Kirkwall_ , and because it's Kirkwall that's saying something. Which should probably be all the more reason for him not to be anywhere near here, at all, but he doesn't have much of a choice, not if he wants to serve. And he does.

He still does, at least he believes so. What else would he do? ... And - well, be a farmer like his dad, like his sisters, _obviously_ , but apart from the shame and humiliation of crawling back - Cullen could stomach that - ... . He's had enough of humiliation to be practiced at it by now. No, apart from that, he still believes, he _believes_ he can -

He's not certain exactly, what, he can do, but he needs to believe, just a little longer, and it'll become clearer and certain again, like it was when he was a boy, just that - he thinks it's still important, at least, to be what he is, a Templar, because they are needed, and he knows that more than ever now, even as he wishes he didn't. But that must be worth _something_.

The belief will, or might, come back, if he - well, believes, but he still thinks it is right, so it ... logic is better than want, sometimes, because while want can _do_ things, it can also _do things_. Cullen shudders. But because of that, it's important for him to do something about it.

But that something, at least, is, to specifically not be thinking about _that_ , because it'll leave him feel... angry and humiliated until he feels too twisted inside himself to think straight, and he'll be on shift in a few hours and he _won't_ be one of those that hurt others, mages or just his subordinates, especially not his subordinates, those people who actually still rely on him to do his job and do it right, at least, not _without cause_. He refuses to hurt them through lack of control of himself or a _stupid mistake_. He won't let them make him into that. He refuses.

So. He'll go crawling through the streets of Kirkwall instead. It's raining. It should be miserable, especially with the taste of sourness and flint and iron - so much like blood - on his lips, when he turns his face up to the night sky and closes his eyes or a moment. Who knows, maybe with Kirkwall, it _is_ like that. Maker knows the City has enough dark stories. Maybe an evil hobgoblin sits under Kirkwall, weaving fairy hair on his loom into a nightmarish tapestry for everyone to suffocate in who looks to closely. For Cullen to suffocate in. Far more likely, there's a big hungry troll under he whole of Kirkwall who demands a bloody toll of everyone passing.

Maybe something in him is well and truly broken, if he can only react with gallows humour, so to speak, and call it humour when he's chocking on it. That, above the persistent queasiness for the lingering taste of iron on his lips he imagines has nothing to with the acid rain even as he _knows_ reasonably, that he washed - he took a bath, Maker, and used all of his soap. He'll have to buy more tomorrow when he leaves after his shift. He'll have no sleep for it, but that's not new, exactly. If he leaves now, he'll have less than the four hours still remaining until he has to start.

No matter. He won't sleep anyway, at least in any way that'll make him feel energised, never mind rested. He'll take a small dose if he can't pull himself up and together enough until he starts, but he'd rather not. He's burned through enough lyrium just from the stress and his imagination trying to run wild that he'll have to take his regular dose early, anyway. He'll have to talk with Meredith, too, since the Knight-Captain resigned and most of the administration's been a mess these past weeks anyway - what with first Bardel's murder and because he was the one who ran some of the ledgers and who got what and how much and then several new lieutenants were appointed and some tranquil have been disappearing who were in charge oif the larium stockroom, now no one knows what's what in the books anymore. Well, he's reasonably sure he'll get it signed off, since it was in the line of duty. But he'd rather not.

Especially since it feels like a reward for murder.

And here he goes not not-thinking again.

He at least trusts the boatsman to not throw him overboard after he's knocked him over the head and taken all that's his - if only because it's a job that pays reasonably well, all the templars know his face, and it'll surely bring Cullen's colleagues after the man if he ignomiously disappears. Well. He's reasonably sure it _might_ be a concern, at least.

Considering he just considered cold-blooded murder on the job, he -

He's really bad at not thinking about things, isn't he?

  
Cullen'd avoided looking at Anders much, when they'd suddenly come face to face out there in the Mountains. Now he feels like an ungrateful ass, and also strangely vindicated, in a way that makes his skin crawl.

Surely he shouldn't feel that ... smug? about being ... he's hesitatent to call it being right about it all. It doesn't _feel_ right. He can stil feel Anders' magic crawl over his skin like ants, but ants that were mending the absent-feeling, just-pain sensation of the burn from the magical fire as the rage demon exploded in his face, even as he barely managed to absorb it through the ice burn of the blue flame in his blood.

And then they'd killed Cullen's apprentice together. Like some sort of... partners in crime. He feels queasy, and sick to his soul. Maybe he'd deserve it if he were murdered in the streets. At least the thieves and scoundrels never pretended to be on his side.

~

He gets out and doesn't pay the ferryman, because Templars don't pay him. It's covered, so that's one less thing on his mind, for his mind to focus on instead of the filthy harbour. A rat paddles past, staring at him from bleary eyes, looking half drowned and throroughly miserable though it's fat. Well, Cullen would too, swimming in what he's sure only resembles water by courtesy of being - mostly - fluid, except for the unidentifiable floating patches of ... some sort of foam, and congested ... he turns his gaze away. It's better not to look, sometimes. Instead, he stumbles from the boat ungracefully, his legs half asleep, and ignores the look of the ferryman who looks weary for seeing it often enough but still somewhat concerned. Cullen cannot fathom where he manages to find the motivation for the emotion.

Cullen leaves the dock. He turns left and distractedly waves off a Coterie member who is too reliable a contact for Cullen to speak to in his present state of mind, and really he doesn't _want_ to now- or ever. He wants to ... not _be_ here, or be _himself,_ or both.

It won't work, this newest attempt at what he supposes could with a stretch be called _cheering himself up_ , he suspects that already, but no one has ever called him not stubborn.

  
But he'd still rather take a walk first. Maybe it helps.

It used to help at Kinloch, when he got anxious, and Cullen _refuses_ to let the mages win. They're dead - all of them. Idunna now, too. They _can't_ take his mind, not still. He defeated them, in the end. He ... must have. He's here, isn't eh? He must. He refuses.

Even if it hurts. It's _his_.

He can't let them win again, even if the illusion is sweet, sweet as poison, poison heavy on his tongue, like soft touch and soft eyes until they turned dark and disgusted, and his own mind turned cruelly against him.

~~~

  
"You're kind of quiet today."

"I'm always quie - ah. Hm." Cullen could feel himself flush, though thankfully, the girl - young woman - across from him could not. See him, that was, she could see his body but that was thankfully armoured just like any other templar, but in see his face, because he had a helmet on too. A helmet he was currently very grateful for, even if it did look like an upside down bucket like the ones Dad always used for the chicken feed. She was certainly eyeing him in a way he wouldn't put it past her.

Tricks, Cullen reminded himself. His mind was playing tricks on him, it was nothing but his own anxiety about how he was looked at playing up. He had a helmet on. Her gaze was too frank for how a mage should be looking at a templar, but that, he reminded himself, had nothing to do with _him_. This was all on her, and she was just a bored young girl stuck in a tower when others were out gallivanting and - and holding hands and flowers and whatever young girls got up to outside the tower. Herding sheep, he remembered. Mostly, in Honnleath, young girls had been mean spirited little gremlins in wool jumpers throwing stones at straying sheep and goats, who were mean-spirited right back, the goats, mostly. The sheep largely just stared, baaed, and didn't move an inch. Likely to do with all their floofy wool, and how the stones never actually hit - because that got your ears pulled and yelled at.

A bit like mages, and templars, and -

Right. Sheep, and goats, and mean - or just girls. They didn't _actually_ have the cooties, he'd found that shocking detail out at about the same time he'd found out why he'd thought they were supposed to have them, which had been when he'd been in the cloister in Denerim, typically enough. A girl, who had just said something to him, and he'd been staring off into distance lost in indeterminable thoughts or not so much, just like the same sheep.

Right. She's not supposed to be a girl, she's supposed to be a mage. She is a mage. Who's not ... exactly behaving... mage-y. But she's supposed to have cooties, only, he's now too old to actually believe that and he rather thinks - Maker. That made more sense in his head. Even if - that is ... it's still in his head, isn't it?

"You're not supposed to talk to me", he said, instead of an actual answer to the question he hadn't heard, if it had even been a question and not an - observation. Taunt, really, but ... she was likely bored. So was he, but he was ... working here. Standing in front of a door. All day. It _was_ boring, but it was necessary, while she was ... being here. As a mage. Who he was supposed to protect, and so, not talk to, much.

"When I'm not doing anyth - I mean, when I'm working. At guarding this door, I mean. It's important. The guarding, not the door, in general, I - Maker." Her eyebrows had been inching up more and more, face bright and smile wide and happy, and her grey eyes lively. Well, at least she seemed to be entertained and not afraid of him or something. He'd seen it some times now, that the young mages especially were afraid of the older Templars. He didn't want to be that. Whoever brought harm against the least of his children.

Grey eyes. She has grey eyes, not blue, at least not a lot of it, just sparks. Wynne had had grey eyes, he remembers. His first crush, kind but capable, and slightly teasing his soldier's ambition but nevertheless serious when she told him Templars trained in Denerim, and he had to mean it. Grey eyes.

Wynne, that is. Maker knows he has bigger embarassments than mooning over old ladies as a boy, even if they were bloody impressive old ladies. At least, Wynne seemed old, now, he knows she likely was only in her thirties, if that, when he was a boy. And that's - Maker, that's still old, if he dares think about his own age.

He shouldn't feel so old. Grey eyes, and they seem like a lifetime behind him. Maybe they are.

But he can't help thinking when he looks at the rain and feels himself getting drenched in it, that she would have loved the feeling of the rain in her long black hair even if it had left her bedraggled like a wet dog. Well. Maybe more .. elegant than a wet dog, Cullen isn't above projecting his own weaknesses on her like this. Apparently. Even if he maybe is projecting his own fear.

It doesn't help knowing, and it doesn't make his hand stop shaking in their iron skin.

He hopes she is somewhere out in the rain, even as he knows that would mean a bloodmage on the loose, and that - he never wished that upon her. Never managed to quite believe that even as he feared it, which means he somewhere, always, knew it wasn't really her he kept seeing as she teased and tested him.

Tortured him.

It means all that was his own weakness.

He should be glad if she's dead, because only bloodmages made it out of that burning tower alive - and fuck what the Warden said, because Greagoir can keep telling Cullen lies meant to be comforting and being only vaguely nauseating in his head still, he can hear the arguments still, like the ringing of a slamming door. He kept hearing it in the cloister in Denerim.

Cullen might have been out of is own mind in the Tower, but he knows what sort of magic it was that broke the demon's hold over him - and he knows, has heard enough while standing guard during endless sessions of tutoring to know what sort of magic can break a demon's bond like the snap of a bow suddenly bending too far, too fast. It's only magic of the same kind, and no mortal should have that.

Greagoir only ever listened to Irving like a faithful dog at his master's heel, as a Templar Commander was supposed to be working with the First Enchanter, _with_ , not _on orders off_ , but Irving was the worst of them all and who kept him in check? Cullen isn't stupid. Irving resisted being turned into an abomination in the Harrowing chamber, when so many others didn't.

There's only one reason for that.

Even Wynne ran from them, and Cullen knows she's fearless. Spirit Healers are the most disciplined of mages - and Cullen knows Anders isn't an obvious model of restraint, but even so he'd never hurt a Templar even when they locked him up for a year. So really, it's relative. And Wynne came back willingly from Ostagar. Surely, if Wynne didn't believe she could resist the trall, how could anyone else?

But sometimes Cullen wonders whether she didn't exactly know what Uldred was planning. He'd been there, too, at the last battle, and he came willingly as well, didn't he?

So he no longer knows what to think.

Cullen realises he's stood at the harbour motionless in the now pouring rain - how could he have overlooked being soaked to his skin on his scalp, hair unravelling from his curls and dangling into his face like wet string, and a Carta member eyeing him strangely like he's maybe looking to buy lyrium.

He might want to, but he's not sunk to quite that sort of despair yet, or that level of lawlessness. He'd have Meredith discharge him unfit for duty first, and... he'd rather grovel at his sister's skirts than beg blue dust from grim-faced dwarves in Darktown.

Maker, he can't, can he? If he's discharged he'll have to beg his sisters to keep him, and she has enough to worry about with the baby underway than her broken-down brother who burned his dream and needs dust more dearly than water to live. How would they pay it? And what would it do to her life, to her, knowing he's ... him?

He's still standing in the rain getting ... rained on.

Grey eyes.

Something in his mind is still staring at him, mockingly, accusingly. Teasingly. He knows they don't mean to hurt him.

Maker, he'd be glad if it were a demon. Maybe.

But he really, _really_ knows that it isn't that.

~~~

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Postscript:  
> This might not /exactly/ be Canon, but you can explain it if you squint - a lot - and use the unrealiable-narrator excuse - a lot:
> 
> I have a headcanon that Wynne came to Honnleath when Cullen was a child (I think she even canonically did), and Shale is from Honnleath, though the golem was there later even after Cullen became a Templar. I know I've seen a comic somewhere of Cullen practicing swordfighting on a motionless Shale who he painted with a target on her torso (she might have even approved because of warrior things - no, scratch that. She would have been furious X-D ).

**Author's Note:**

> ~  
> I can't for the life of me stick to a linear progression when writing - so though the story is more than 2/3rds done I have parts in the middle needing edit and nice stuff added. I'll aim for a posting schedule of about once to twice a month for this, for that reason - I don't want to rush it.  
> Also ... first time posting, anything, ever, so ... please don't be nice, exactly, I like detailed ramblings of what I could do better and what you liked, hopefully.
> 
> Edit Feb 11th, 2021:  
> This goes with "Just One" for now, but can be read as a standalone too.


End file.
